


Lightning, redux

by KestrelShrike



Series: Abelas/Lavellan [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ABELLAN, F/M, For all your 'fucking with a dragon nearby' needs, I'm kind of ashamed, I'm so sorry, NSFW, Sex, Smut, i mean dragon corpses are kind of hot, right - Freeform, trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:38:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3571637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KestrelShrike/pseuds/KestrelShrike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things get nasty. This is my first time writing smut. Please don't be too hard on me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lightning, redux

They pitched their tents as far away from the corpse of the Vinsomer as possible. Only Bull slept out in the open. He apparently wasn’t a fan of tents, having told the Inquisitor a story about getting his horns caught in the cloth and ripping it to shreds. He would shelter under a tree, and that would suffice. The extra space meant Shiral’s men had given her the special, fancy Inquisitor’s tent. It was extra large, needlessly so. Cassandra and Abelas had more modest affairs in comparison. 

A contented exhaustment fell over the four of them. They gathered around a sputtering fire. It was still drizzling, but far more lightly now. When the clouds moved, moonlight broke through, and stars would appear for a fragile second. It was beautiful, when the dragon was down wind. It was too bad they were all too tired to enjoy it, too tired to even speak to each other. 

Shiral was the first to break away from her little group. “Sleep well.” She nodded to each in turn. Abelas still wouldn’t look at her directly, but her very bones ached. She could wonder what was wrong with him tomorrow, look over everything she said and did, overanalyze it to death. Tomorrow. 

Inside the dim tent, lit by a half closed lantern, Shiral removed her outer layer of clothing. Though she hadn’t been at the forefront of the battle, there was still blood on her clothes, in her white blonde hair. She combed it out as best she could, but it would be there until they went home, and she could bathe it all away. Against the pale skin of her hands, the blood was a second vallaslin, settling into cracks and grooves in inexplicable patterns. Maybe it was a second gift to Andruil, who had already marked her face so clearly. 

The flaps to Shiral’s tent opened, letting in some of the cool mist. She glanced up, trying to keep irritation out of her face. What did someone want now? Whatever it was could wait until the morning, surely. 

A mouth on hers, insistent, wanting. Unless Cassandra has spontaneously developed feelings for her, or Bull had shrunk to about half his size, it was Abelas. This surprise was not particularly unpleasant, though it was out of nowhere. Who was she to say no? She returned his kiss, felt his hands cupping her face firmly. She broke away only for a moment, because her curiosity wouldn’t just let this lie. “I thought you were angry at me.” He had looked angry, frustrated. She hadn’t shot as cleanly as she would have liked, hadn’t faced the dragon with all the necessary bravery. It was a poor showing on Shiral’s part, but she hadn’t planned on being ashamed of it until tomorrow. 

Abelas shook his head at her. The damp had matted freed strands of his silver hair to his face. She brushed them away carefully. His eyes were so much brighter than the lantern. 

“I worried. I thought I could myself between you and the dragon at all times. I almost failed.” His head hung lower, slightly, his eyes glancing down at the floor.

“I don’t need that. I’ve fought dragons before you.” Her words were firm, but Shiral smiled. Inside, she was slightly giddy. It was a stupid, childish feeling. It should have been her trying to sacrifice herself to keep him safe, but it felt nice to have things the other way around. 

Their lips met again, and she equalled his enthusiasm and insistence, mouth parting slightly to feel his tongue enter. Her arms crept around his neck, noting that he too had removed his armor in favor of only the undertunic. It was a very unnecessary barrier to what she wanted to do at that moment. 

Once again she broke away, enjoying the power that lay in her hands. Abelas let out an involuntary noise, a soft whumph of air not unlike a groan. He was normally so possessed. Her grin must have been positively wicked at that moment. 

Their relationship thus far had been full of stops and starts. It seemed like the minute they progressed into something deeper, one of them would step back. He would simply walk away, or she would make some joke that would ruin the mood. Neither of them was much good at romance, to tell the truth. There would never be a moment better than this, both exhausted and blood soaked. It felt right. 

Shiral peeled off her own tunic, feeling it stick to her skin. Nothing about this should have felt attractive, but she felt Abelas’ eyes firmly on her, watching her every move. He was riveted. 

Her vallaslin was faint, a silver trellis that curved and curled even down to her breasts. It had been painful when she received it, but it had been worth it, to see the way it enhanced her now. By the light that was available, she felt divine. 

Abelas’ hands crept down her body, from a fleeting touch on her face to cup her breasts. There was no hesitation in him now, both of them sure and steady. There would be no interruptions either- Cassandra and Iron Bull knew better, had seen Abelas enter her tent and retreated to their respective sleeping places, cotton ready to be stuffed in their ears. Just in case. 

Muscular arms crossed to remove his shirt. Abelas smiled at her, and Shiral scooted forward, moved to sit on his lap, to feel exactly how eager he was to see her out of the rest of her clothes. She had seen him shirtless before, but the intimacy of the situation rendered him a new light. He was so pale, more pale than she, lacking that pink tone that was always there. There was only the faintest flush to his cheeks, while Shiral was sure that hers must be bright red. Every hard plane of his body was hit with the light, so that any softness was hidden. It was all in his eyes this time, a devotion she had not seen before, that moved her to try and tug off his pants. They had both been waiting for this, though neither was exactly aware of it. 

He stood up (the Inquisitor’s tent really did have remarkable head room), and gathered her into his arms. Being carried should have been an affront, but she let it happen, let him lay her upon the simple bedroll, eyes greedily taking in the way his muscles worked. Almost shy, he turned his back to her so that she saw only his vallaslin, a network of roots along his back. He removed his pants, not needing her help, and she made a little mewl of protest at this indignity, though she was soon occupied by what was, to be quite frank, a perfect ass. The vallaslin ended just above it, but that was okay. It needed no adornment. 

Abelas faced front. Oh, Maker! Was it even necessary to describe him? His actions mattered more than the appearance, suffice to say that it satisfied Shiral, and intrigued her at the same time. 

He leaned over her, the length of his body pressed against hers. The state of their clothing was patently unfair, but he sought to rectify that, his hands gentle as he pulled down her pants and small clothes. Again he laid on top of her, teasing. Their collective warmth made the tent positively steamy. She looked so pink compared to him, but their vallaslins blended together, green and silver, in a network of roots and branches and arrows that made up a great forest. Abelas had blood on his arms. Hopefully it was not his own. 

“Please,” she whispered up to him. He bent his head to her and once more they drowned in a dance of tongues, but Abelas was eager to oblige her. He spread her legs with his hand, brushing against that sweetest part of her. It shot through her, an arc of electricity that rivaled anything the Vinsomer could do. He pressed harder, faster, just one finger enough to send those delicious shivers through her body until the pressure was mounting. Shiral made no attempt to be quiet, though she would think about it later, in the morning. 

Just as she thought she would release it all, her worries and her lust cries mingling in one, Abelas pulled his hand away. Why? Ah, that was why. 

He entered her without a noise. It felt so right, though she gasped a little bit. It wasn’t an unwelcome intrusion. Her hips rose to meet his. She would set the rhythm for this. They moved together, one wave, his actions a fraction of a second behind hers. The fact that he yielded to her was an extra pleasure. It felt equal, not a man trying to dominate her, not her completely dominating a man. The pleasure on his face mirrored her own, eyes heavy lidded. They touched, lips on lips, her hands roaming over the expanse of his back, fingers digging into his skin as each thrust grew more frenzied. 

Closer together now. She had thought Abelas would be silent, but he murmured something under his breath, a silent litany. Perhaps it was a prayer to Mythal. Shiral did not much care at the moment, as long as his eyes remained locked on hers, as long as he continued to bring her closer to that edge. 

They were there too soon, pent up frustration manifesting itself in a simultaneous early relief that made her muscles languid, though not after she cried out his name as he cried out her own. They had fought a dragon today; it was no use fighting their bodies. Instead, they lay side by side, until he curved his body around hers, nestled his face into the crook of her neck, an arm thrust across her breasts to hold her close. Slowly, both their breaths steadied, and they drifted to sleep.


End file.
